


Memories of you

by PleaseDontFindThisMom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bored Sherlock Holmes, Brain Damage, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Major Character Injury, Not Canon Compliant, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:15:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29353308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PleaseDontFindThisMom/pseuds/PleaseDontFindThisMom
Summary: Sherlock wants to destroy the journal. Burn it. Dissolve it in acid. Burn it and then dissolve it. Shoot it for good measure.The journal is a piss poor substitute for John.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 9





	Memories of you

Mycroft was a nosy bastard. Sherlock was fine and there was no reason to send him behind God’s back, far away from everything even remotely interesting, just because he had gotten a little bit hurt. His leg was better already for God’s sake! And John- John…

Shudder works itself up Sherlock’s spine ( _ don’t think about John _ ). The cold it spreads around his body is a stark contrast to the warm day - there are relatively few clouds in the sky given it’s England. The seemingly endless field on the west side of the cottage he’s been carried off to is disgustingly green and the forest on the east side disgustingly bright for forest. There is only one road to be seen, the old beaten up driveway up to the cottage. 

Oh the cottage. Sherlock can admit should he ever retire he would consider cottage just like it, but right now it is just the epitome of everything that is wrong in this world. Sneering at the two floors of pristine condition living space Sherlock turns around on the lone bench dragged next to the one tree growing in the garden outside the house. The bench he’s been forced to sit on since being hauled off from London to  _ rest _ . Next to the bench is also the small table to put his tea on. The tea he had poured to the ground as soon as he had gotten it, like all the previous ones. And next to the empty tea cup is the challenger for Mycroft as the bane of his existence,  _ the journal _ . 

Fields. Forest. Tree. Bench. Cottage. Clouds. Teacup. Journal. Nothing new under the freaking Sun then. 

The only good thing about the place - bees - was also robbed from him. Evidently there were bees but no one was taking him to see them. He could imagine hearing them, probably on the other side of the house, but he wasn’t taken there. Why did Mycroft and who ever was taking care of him insist on robbing him of the one good thing in this place?

Scoffing Sherlock calculates the satisfaction he would get from mashing the cup and eventually concludes that it would not be worth the effort. Picking up the cursed journal instead Sherlock reads it again for what must be the hundredth time. He knows he has read it three times and has deleted the other times. 

He must be truly desperate to read it again.

He is.

First page; blank. Second page; name. Third to fiftieth page; John’s neat handwriting detailing the most boring forty-eight days in existence. Fifty-first page to seventy-fourth page; John talking on and on about people they know, including the dimwit also known as Anderson. Seventy-fifth page to ninety-ninth page; more blank. 

Sherlock wants to destroy the journal. Burn it. Dissolve it in acid. Burn it and then dissolve it. Shoot it for good measure. 

The journal is a piss poor substitute for John and if-

New shudder makes itself up Sherlock’s spine. He can even detect tear or two swelling up in his eyes. Emotion. Chemical defect. And he truly was the losing side. 

If it wasn’t for him, John wouldn’t be- be de-

“Everything okay?”

Sherlock turns sharply at the noise. It’s the nurse - or rather a nurse. Sherlock wouldn’t know if the man is new or not since he keeps deleting them. To give some variety, a slight illusion of something new.

_ Mid seventies. Ex-army nurse. No close family. Scored a well paying private job at some point, within government most likely. Has been here from the start, about three weeks now. _

Dull dull dull. Nothing interesting. No wonder he keeps deleting the man.

The man is still looking at him and Sherlock realizes he never answered the question. But he is stuck in the middle of nowhere and the man can see he is not physically hurt - the question is not worth answering. Turning away from the nurse to look at the even more boring fields Sherlock keeps his mouth shut. 

  
There is a long suffering sigh from behind him - the kind of sigh that says he is used to this - and his teacup is taken away. No option of breaking it anymore then.

“You read the journal again?” Sherlock dignifies the question with only a hum. The journal is open in his lap so the question is stupid. There is a new suffering sigh from behind him. But the man doesn’t leave. Can’t he leave Sherlock to die alone in his boredom?

“I prepared a new set of cows stomachs for you. You had that experiment on how fast and effectively they react to acid, didn’t you?” The journal drops on the ground as Sherlock shoots up, bones moaning in unease at the sudden movement. The nurse huffs in laughter and picks up the journal before following Sherlock inside.

There truly are four stomachs waiting on the table in the room that had been converted into a lab. Mycroft had done a remarkable job for one - the lab was a marvel given the situation. One steady table next to the wall, cabinets full of state of art equipment, lines and lines of chemicals, three computers with all the programs he could need. Sherlock almost sings out praises; he may not have Work, no London,  no John but he did have experiments. 

Lowering himself on the stool Sherlock gets a sense of déjà vu. What does th- Oh yes, he did this same experiment on a human stomach already. Looking around he spots printouts in one of the cabinets. Quick rummage around reveals the results of that experiment. 

There is the sound of steps and the nurse appears into the room. Sherlock bites back a rude remark - his hideous cream jumper is obviously from lost love - and let’s the man settle a piece of toast along with a new tea cup on the table. To his disappointment the man doesn’t leave.

“Did you enjoy reading today?” 

Sherlock spares two seconds to think about it. “No.” Screeching sound. The man pulled out a chair for himself to sit on then. Given his shape he is going to stay for a while then.  _ Great.  _

“And why is that?” Oh good lord this man had even more abysmal people skills than Sherlock.

“Because the journal is a dreadful fill-in for my best friend.” Twisting around with the previous experiment results in hand he sees the man nod. Nod.  _ They have had this exact same conversation, why does the nurse want to do it again??? _

“Your best friend?”  _ And he’s asking for more??? _

Looking at the cow stomachs Sherlock gives in with a dramatically deep sigh. No need to anger the man who gives him anything to do around here. “Yes, my best friend, John Watson. He- He’s not here anymore.” Tears well up again. 

(It’s just a chemical defect)

The man leans forward, head bowing in sympathy. There is a twinkle of sorrow in his own eyes - he must have lost someone dear himself. “I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”

Gulping down, Sherlock steels himself under the understanding yet hard gaze. It’s not that talking about John is bad or hard, he just really doesn’t want to do it. Yet, not talking about it seems, disrespectful. Like he’s hiding John’s memory. “I- We were on a case, tracking a pair of bombers. I miscalculated and the other one, he blew a building up. We were too close. He- He was closer. His stomach ripped open and neck, it snapped. My leg,” Sherlock makes a sweeping gesture down to his busted leg, “broke in the same accident. I also hit my head and got the concussion. But you knew that already, that is why you were hired to look after me after all.”

Tearing his kaleidoscope eyes away from the nurses blue ones Sherlock blinks the tears away. John. Dead.  _ Dead.  _ dead. Because of Sherlock’s mistake. Striding back to the table Sherlock busies himself with preparing the timer, acids, the microscope and the computers. It doesn’t help with the emptiness welling up inside him but gives him the illusion of control and stability.

“That’s horrible.” The voice that answers is unsteady. Sherlock hopes the man won’t start crying or if he does, he leaves before then. There is the screeching sound again and the man enters his peripheral vision. Sherlock keeps his eyes firmly on one of the computer screens so that the man would understand to go away. His prayer goes unanswered as the nurse stares out of the window above the lab table, seemingly lost in the green fields and very much not leaving him alone. Sherlock does his best to block out the man’s presence.

There is a nudge in the corner of his mouth. Sherlock opens his mouth instinctively and bites down on the piece of toast. The man’s smile turns melancholic as he puts the rest of the bread back down on the plate.

“Well, I will get out of your hair now. Enjoy the cow stomachs.” There is the sound of steps and the man is gone. He had a limp, on his right leg. Psychosomatic. 

Sherlock’s head shoots up. Fingers frozen on the keyboard his mind seems to swirl around in circles as if his mind palace has drowned under a swift current.

_ Psychosomatic limp in right leg. Something about that is important. _

Sherlock looks at his own leg. It is not busted at all, is it? It is long since healed as well as it ever can from the broken knee cap. Sherlock takes a critical look at his reflection on one of the glass cabinet doors. His skin is wrinkled. His hair is graying, grayed up. And now that he looks into it, he has no memories after the incident. He can’t have deleted everything, could he have?

Standing up on shaky legs Sherlock more or less staggers into the hallway. Hideous cream jumper. Just like the one he gave John once. Repeating conversation about John’s journal. John’s journal, when there is no way he would have had time to write it had he died. And now that he thinks about it, the journal obliviously tells about forty-eight days here in this cursed cottage. Numb, sorrowful attitude to Sherlock’s rudeness. Not breaking the cup not because of the lack of satisfaction but because he is lacking energy for it. Lab that is too well equipped to be meant for short usage, too well equipped to have been up for mere weeks. Deja vu, not because he had done the experiment with the human stomach but because he had done the exact same experiment before. Mycroft would never leave him with only a nurse for prolonged amounts of time and there was next to no way to get any credible doctor to stay with him for so long with money alone.

Wrinkles. Jumper. Journal. Deja vu.  _ John _ . 

“John!” Bursting into the kitchen Sherlock can’t look closely enough. Old, so much older, but it is John.  _ John.  _ His John. The man himself stiffens up as if shot and turns around slowly. He should be happy; Sherlock worked it out, Sherlock knows it’s him, Sherlock remembers him! But the expression is just empty and mournful. It pains Sherlock, breaks something inside him to see the soldier so wound up.

“You remembered then.” Sherlock was already halfway across the kitchen when the defeated voice registers in him. He halts and takes a step back, feeling like he has been slapped.

“Of course- of course I remember you John.” The doctor looks at him sadly. Sherlock isn’t breathing properly (what did he say once? breathing is boring? it really is) and doesn’t care because John is here and alive. Emotions swirl around his head, clashing and making him dizzy.

_ johnjohnjohn _

Sherlock doesn’t notice his legs giving out before two hands holster him up and carry him off to the living room sofa. His cheek rubs to the hideous beard and they really have to get rid of it now. It hides John’s jawline and makes his mouth look smaller and it’s scratchy. 

“John, you, we-” The deductions must be easy, he should know what is happening, but can’t. He is dizzy and drowning and doesn’t even care. All that matters is that John is there. Here. With him, alive and breathing.

“Shh, shh love, calm down. I’m going to get you something to drink so just relax.” Trying his best to ease his rigid muscles Sherlock closes his eyes. Breath. And then John is back already, tea cup in hand. Helping Sherlock into a sitting position he makes him down the whole cup. Sherlock tries to look at John’s eyes (how did he not recognize those eyes?), tries to see the answer there. The doctor smiles that melancholy smile again. Sherlock decides that he hates it.

“Every time you remember you work yourself up too much, it’s not healthy for you.” Soft hand caresses Sherlock’s cheek and words don’t stick into his mudded brain. For a moment everything is perfect with the two of them sitting on the sofa, movements soft and slow, even if Sherlock has a myriad of questions. The caressing continues until something heavy, like cotton, starts to fill his head, dampening everything else under it. Sherlock is lowered back down and the last thing he remembers is the warmth of John’s hands. 

Three hours later Sherlock wakes up from his nap. It was already late afternoon which meant the nurse would come soon and force him to eat. Just as Sherlock tries to motivate himself to raise up and hide from the nurse, a man rounds the corner into the living room. It’s the nurse - or rather a nurse. Sherlock wouldn’t know if the man is new or not since he keeps deleting them. To give some variety, a slight illusion of something new.

_ Mid seventies. Ex-army nurse. No close family. Scored a well paying private job at some point, within government most likely. Has been here from the start, about three weeks now. _

Dull dull dull. Nothing interesting. No wonder he keeps deleting the man.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so the original male character was a LIE, it was just John (and the bomber(s) I suppose).
> 
> Tagging without giving too much away is hard, but I think I did okay.


End file.
